


Path of the Gods

by WaterFowl



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Gen, Lee/Angst, Lee/Dee - Freeform, Marriage, Postmortem Depression, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-18
Updated: 2010-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 06:31:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterFowl/pseuds/WaterFowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse of a possible journey Lee Adama took over the span, framed by fleeing the morgue and "looking like hell" on Colonial One scenes in Sometimes a Great Notion. Featuring Colonel Tigh in passing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Path of the Gods

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: There is a time-lapse in Sometimes a Great Notion in between Lee Adama fleeing the morgue, appalled by his father's lack of empathy, and him "looking like hell" on Colonial One. This drabble follows a possible journey Lee took over the span framed by these scenes. Featuring Colonel Tigh in passing.
> 
> Disclaimer: None of the characters, plot-lines mentioned/alluded to belong to me.

**Path of the Gods**

Out. Out and away – as fast and as far as he could. He had to get out of that place, where his father chose to collapse in a drunken heap over her chilled form. Away from Gaeta's dagger-rimmed condemning stare. Away from the taste of her kiss on his lips. Farther, farther, faster… He'd, quite possibly, never missed flying more. At least, while still an Apollo he was so determined to shed and leave behind, he could hop into a Viper and jet out. Out, into the freezing void where pain didn't count. He had to find a way out before he choked on his own breathing.

Cold was the first sensation to register in he wouldn't bet how long a while. Raking shivers resonated the impact with the hard surface he was sprawled on. Metal. Everything was supposed to be iron-cast on Galactica – walls, floors, feelings… Surprise reared second. Cool as it was, his unlikely bunk did amazingly little to soothe the feverish heat engulfing his mind, spinning the dizzying whirlpool of tangled visuals through a pounding "why?" Disappointment crowned his impromptu inventory – he was still woefully sane enough to be aware of all that.

The rest of his senses rushed back in a flood with a tight bruising grip pulling him off the floor. It took an unexpected effort to pry the swollen eyes open and focus through a misty haze of lingering tears. He couldn't quite remember crying, though. His eyes picked up where mind and body left off, spotting the worn roughness of the bulkhead, the gigantic clenched jaws of the automatic hatch. An airlock. He couldn't quite remember getting there, burrowing blindly through ghostly hallways, in the frantic search for a getaway. What he could recall was a distant hope he wouldn't have to remember much more once he made it through the exit.

\- Why? – his own voice sounded harsh and exhausted from overuse. He couldn't quite remember wailing, though. His addressee, still plopping him firmly up against the wall, whether due to newfound Cylon prescience or long-term human experience, seemed aware there was more to the anguished inquiry, than any linear rationale could possibly resolve. The expression of the single eye, regarding him intently, sifted through trademark ever irritated scorn and settled on something akin to sympathy.

\- Guess, your Old Man never told you about foxes, huh? What if that's the wrong question altogether? What if instead of "why _she_ did it?" you rather wondered "why _you_ won't"?

 _If anyone can give them a reason to go on, it's you. Apollo._ That was supposed to be why. Apart from the fact that, what few reasons he might have had of his own, were blown away by a gunshot hours ago. He mused disdainfully, if she could still be proud of an Apollo having vented himself into space above the barren wasteland that was her undoing.

\- C'mon, Apollo, pick yourself up! Let's get you a shuttle home.

That was when lucidity finally crept back. For all intents and purposes Colonial One was his home now, his office adorned with a tiny framed token he was on more than one occasion weary to acknowledge. She could see all along it would take an Apollo to be Leland Joseph Adama. If anything, he was able to make out an airlock was no way to get there.


End file.
